Sister Wolfe
by Mistress Cassandra
Summary: A letter to her enemy. The story of her life, as she never told anyone before. The great Vatican assassin remembers...
1. Introduction

I do not own Hellsing- Kouta Hirano does.

Many thanks to my beta reader, Rihannon Thanatos, for her patience and for the time she spent to correct my stupid grammatical mistakes!

I know that you are really surprised -if not shocked- to receive a letter from me. Even I am surprised with myself now that I'm writing to you, it's so out of character. But I guess there comes a turning point in one's life, where being rational and in character is completely pointless.  
Day by day, I feel death's cold breath draw closer and closer. And believe me, my life has been so closely connected with death that now I'm able to smell it.  
My time is coming.  
I know.  
I never liked you, Integra Hellsing.  
If I ever had a feeling for you, that feeling would be hatred.  
I despise you.  
But I also feel the deepest respect for you.  
Now that I think of it again, I'd say that I was always jealous of you.  
Yes, that's it. Envy.  
I always wanted to be like you, Hellsing. You were always the great person I wanted to become, and for the greatness of your soul and spirit, even when tragedy hit upon you, I pay my humble respects.  
Flattery isn't the purpose of my letter, though. In fact this is something I was never good at.  
I write you because you're the only one left, Integra.  
We fought together on the same battlefield against Millenium, we felt the same pain when we lost our dearest people, we wasted our lives on a constant battle for our beliefs with no result. I saw your strength and your dignity -you proved yourself worthy.  
And thus I want to tell you the story of my life, before I close my eyes forever. I have nobody left but you to memorise my existence in this vain world.  
I, Heinkel Wolfe, one of the Iscariot Organisation best assassins, choose YOU, Integra Hellsing to save me from oblivion.  
I don't want to be forgotten.  
Promise me you'll remember me, worthy and beloved enemy.


	2. The happy Sundays

I was born in my parents' home, in a village near Bavaria, a little more than half a century ago. Fifty-seven years ago to be more specific. It was on a cold night of February.  
Later in my life, I got to learn that during my birth a crow was sitting on the window pane of the room. The midwife interpreted this as a bad omen, she said that I would not live long. I proved her wrong. Now I know the true meaning of the sign: my life would be associated with death. I would stain my hands with blood in the name of God.

And so, Heinkel Wolfe was born.  
I was the fourth child of Franz and Brigitte Wolfe. I had three older brothers, Hans, Johann and Christian.  
My family was poor. I can't say I had a nice childhood. I still remember the difficult winters we went through every year. But those were the happy days. The only days when I really lived as a child.

Everything changed when I lost my beloved father at the age of six.  
Here's another thing we have in common, Integra -we both lost our fathers when they were still gods on earth.

I'll never forget that horrible day.

Papa worked hard the entire week to feed us all. He worked like a dog. And oh my, he was always so sweet and loving. The smile never left his lips.  
He was a really handsome man, my father. I was often told that I resembled him a lot. In fact, I have his eyes and his hair.  
Maybe it was because of this resemblance -and of course because of this strange affection fathers have for their girls, this damned Oedipus complex or whatever they call it, I'm not familiar with these terms- that he had this particular weakness for me. Although parents don't make discriminations among their kids, I can say with no doubt that I was his favorite child. That, I think, is the source of all the problems I had in my relationships with my siblings later in my life.

I can recall every single Sunday back then. This is how I became such a devout catholic, how I loved God so much.  
We used to go to the church together and then Papa always took me by the hand and we went for a long walk outside the village. Even now, my hand burns whenever I recall my small hand closed firmly in his palm. I remember clearly the rough skin that felt like velvet on mine. No princess, in any time, in any palace, had ever been able to reach a tiny bit of my happiness. He'd pick flowers for me, show me a small animal's nest, tell me how to recognise different kinds of trees. In his hug, I felt as If the whole world was mine, as if I needed no God. I had my Papa.

My eyes grow damp now that I remember his smell.

Later, we'd go back into the village and he'd always buy me a piece of candy, and so he did for himself and my brothers, but he'd eat his with me. People who saw us always said "What a beautiful daughter you have, Franz!" or something like that and I was so proud.

Then came that black Tuesday.  
Two men brought my Papa home. They carried him like a sack of potatoes. His eyes were empty and his skin almost looked grey. I don't remember what they said- my mother was hysteric, my brothers were crying and the only thing I did was grab his hand as he lay on the bed and tell him I loved him. He smiled and pulled me close. Placing a kiss on my forehead, he passed away.

I knew right then that our blissfull Sundays were gone for good.

That's how I lost forever the first man I ever loved.

That's how I felt for the first time the stench of death in my nostrils.


	3. Growing up the hard way

Shit. I always cry when I remember that moment. All my life I've worked so hard in drowning tears and still, whenever I remember my Papa I cry.  
I guess even women like us have their weaknesses, right Hellsing?

The rest is still a mess in my head. My middle brother, Johann- the one with whom I have a relatively good relationship- has told me that I fainted, and when I opened my eyes all I did was crying and screaming.

I'm glad that the factory where Papa worked -and had the accident that caused his death- was shut a few years later. I shouldn't be saying that, but yes, I'm very glad.

As you understand, in such a state I could not attend his funeral. This is one of the deepest scars in my soul -I didn't escort my father to his last dominion.  
My mother left me to the neighbour as she couldn't take care of me at the moment.

I never liked our neighbour. She was fat and always smelled like raw meat. So did her house. I didn't stop crying for a second while I was there.  
The first moment that she turned her back, I ran away.

I ran for very long, with no direction. I kept on running and running blinded by ny own tears, not knowing where my steps were leading me. But somehow, I went to my favorite oak tree outside the village, under which Papa and I used to sit when we were tired.  
I collapsed under the tree and I nestled up there till I fell asleep. I stayed out there in the cold without eating anything for three whole days.  
I just cried and begged God to bring me my Papa back.  
I was a good girl, I hadn't done anything to deserve such punishment.  
Finaly, I decided to return home. The hunger was killing me and I felt numb from the cold.  
My steps towards home were heavy.

When I entered, my brother Hans was waiting for me and his looks were more than menacing.  
Instead of asking if I was alright, or even saying anything else, he slapped me on the face with all his strength. So hard that my nose started bleeding. Then he locked me in the basement, without giving me anything to eat, for "embarrassing our family to the neighbour."  
I knew my life afterwards would not be good.

I think I should tell you some things about my family now.  
My brother, Hans, was not a good person. He was ten years older than me, tall and very strong -he could fight with five men without getting a single bruise. Quite handsome, I must admit. But he was a huge jerk. And when I say huge, I mean huge. Since I remember him, he had a very bad character, an exquisite talent to become terribly unpleasant and I can say that he found pleasure in harming others, people or even animals (I clearly remember him torturing a cat when he was seventeen or so and he laughed his heart out). More importantly, Hans was violent. Towards other kids, towards me and our mother, towards his wife and his daughters later.

Christian was not what you'd call a bastard, like Hans. He was not very smart, but he was not bad. He was very easily influenced, though. And whenever Hans encouraged him in bullying me or other children, he did so. When he turned thirty he married a good girl and he made a good family.

Johann on the other hand, was indifferent for everything. Never spoke, never showed his emotions. He was more of a loner. But he was never bad with me. Distant, yet loving. Sometimes I miss him.

My mother was a cute, thin woman with long dark hair, brown eyes and white skin. Just like a porcelain doll. A small, fragile woman who was afraid of her own shadow. Kind and sweet, but a weakling. Hans could do whatever he wanted now that Papa was dead. Mama loved us all, but with me being a girl she acted strange. She loved me, but her main concern was that we were so poor that nobody would marry me anytime soon. I still can't explain this, but what she wanted most in her life, was to see me married with children. Poor Mama.  
Anyway, back to the story.

Late at night, I managed to get out of the basement and steal some bread and an apple from the kitchen. I hid them under my blouse and went back. There I soothed my hunger and I slept dreamlessly till the next morning,

Mother gathered us all in the kitchen and said that since Papa was no more, things had to change. She would find a job, and so Hans and Johann would too, since they were already sixteen and fifteen years old. Christian and I would go to school normally, but now I had to take care of the house.  
Better say, become the servant of the house.  
I was seven years old, and unlike you, who grew up with maids and butlers, had to do everything a household needs. But no matter what I did, Hans was never satisfied. He would always find a flaw in everything, and so he beat me. Every night, I could hear my Mama crying.  
I was angry with God, who took my Papa away. If he were still here, nothing would have happened.  
I didn't care though. I pitied that bully Hans, that moron Christian and my mother, that coward. I looked down on them. At school I was one of the best -many of my teachers called me brilliant, and everyone said I had a thing for letters.

I was ten when I decided that I would become a teacher.


	4. Adolescence

Years go away very fast when you're waiting, don't they? In my case, they were nothing but smoke that vanished, while I was locked inside our home, lost between homework for school and household tasks, dusting furniture and suffering in the hell of the kitchen, hiding my earthly intelligence in fake childlike smiles before others and always wearing long sleeves so that nobody saw my bruised arms.

Fifteen years old. And never once been to the cinema. Only visits to some short and fat aunts of mine, who reeked of cooked meat and windbeutel. Without a single book, to soothe the hunger of my mind, my howling mind. But I believed in God and I was patient. Back then, I didn't know that what we hope for with rage, never comes…

The Sunday candies melted and became mud inside my mouth. Poverty, hunger, violence –I never ceased to wonder how things ended up like that.

Hans used to beat our mother too.

Time passed by and I became better and better in school. I dreamt of going to Munich to study. I even started becoming rebellious against my family. Whenever I mentioned the word "University" –which I did very often and very provocatively- Hans would go mad. And we'd have huge fights afterwards.

Thinking back now, I realize that I owe to Hans the free training in hand-to-hand combat that later helped me in my career as an Iscariot. As I entered adolescence, Hans couldn't handle me as easily as he used to –not only did I start reacting and trying to defend myself, but I also grew taller and stronger. I should thank my brother Johann for this, who got married at the age of 23 to a kinda wealthy girl from another village in order to help us. Very often, he would send us some meat, eggs and other stuff, included an envelope with some money for my mother with the note "for Heinkel's milk".

I saw Johann some years later. He aged prematurely. And I feel remorse. After all, I was raised with that bitter milk we bought with Johann's money…

As I recall those days, I can't help but laugh. What a comedy, Hans trying to take our father's place inside our home. If you only knew the disgust I felt for him… Even as a child, before our father's death, I didn't want to be very close to him- from all the pores of his body dripped, like sweat, a strange smell, like condensed violence. And that rough sound of his voice… Like someone scratching their nails on a wooden board. I couldn't stand it.

Strange creatures, my brothers. Males with a capital M. I felt as if they threatened me, hidden in their men's clothes. And they felt as if I threatened their honor with my desire to live.

So, they had to tie me. It was inevitable. They forced me to wear long dresses buttoned up to the neck, so that men wouldn't lust over my body –at the age of fourteen I was already quite developed.

Damn. I used to be pretty back then. Nothing like the butch you met thirty-two years ago. I had long blond hair that reached my waist. My skin wasn't scarred and full of wrinkles. Yes, I was beautiful. Not even the ugly shoes and the wool socks that Hans and Christian forced me to wear could undo that.

Heinkel, the cute little blondie with the bruised arms and legs, the one who everyone in the village sympathized but never helped, despite the fact that they all knew what she was going through…


End file.
